


The Other Side of Maybe

by voleuse



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Apocalypse, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-19
Updated: 2006-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It was windy every day</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side of Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> An apocalypse strikes sometime after S1. No spoilers. Summary and headings adapted from Anne Carson's _Apostle Town_.

_i. after your death_

Cristina never leaves the hospital. When she bothers to stop and think about it, she supposes her apartment must still be there. It was a good neighborhood, and the security was tight.

Maybe the riots never reached inside her building. Maybe her door has never been unlocked since she left that last morning. Maybe her clothes are still there, jeans and bras and socks torn at the seams.

And maybe Burke made it back to her apartment on that last day, safe and unscathed. Maybe he's been waiting for her to come back.

Cristina never leaves the hospital, because she prefers not to think about the other side of maybe.

_ii. every day opposed us like a wall_

The first floor of the hospital is filled with rubble. They did it themselves, after the first week of riots, narrowing the doors to a defensible opening. George had said something about hunting, or birds, or something stupid like that. Cristina hadn't been listening very closely; she'd been too distracted by the bloody gash over his left eye.

Nowadays, there are five armed guards on the first floor, three stationed within sight of the door. Patients can still get in, but they don't have to worry about a gang breaking through. The medicine is only kept under double-padlocks, and the syringes under triple.

When she's not by one of the guards, Cristina keeps a scalpel in her left hand. Izzie calls it a security blanket, but Izzie's never tried to go outside, either. Cristina's learned the hard way.

_iii. we went_

Izzie spends most of her time in the cafeteria kitchen, or what's left of it. In the beginning, she pitched in with their impromptu surgeries, helped care for the patients closing in on terminal. She does sometimes, even now, if Cristina comes into the kitchen and drags her out by the hair.

There aren't that many doctors anymore. Certainly not many at Seattle Grace.

So when she isn't stretching their rationed starches further than half again, Izzie follows Cristina into the pit. They bandage, they stitch, they bark orders and murmur regrets.

Whenever Cristina finishes up, however, heads to the sometimes-functioning elevator to join George in critical care, Izzie disappears again.

Cristina doesn't care, really, but she wishes there was somebody else to help.

_iv. shouting sideways at one another_

Cristina never thought she'd like George this much, but if she ever needs to lean on a shoulder, it's easy to prop herself on his.

He looks older than she remembers, when she bothers to remember. It's the scar on his forehead from that first week, and the ones he's collected since then, on his hands, his legs, his back. It's the way he's let his hair grow ragged, the stubble of his beard, even while he keeps his nails perfectly trim for surgeries.

Sometimes his hands shake when he touches her, and Cristina looks away. So does he, and they pretend everything they shouldn't.

It would be easier if they didn't, but neither of them has ever understood easy.

Izzie only laughs, that empty giggle, and watches them. For a while.

_v. empty spaces and yet they are solid and black_

They're short on staff overall, and many of the faces are transitory. Not many can stand to be in Seattle for long, not when rumors of better, safer hospitals still circulate.

Tyler's still around, and Addison and Olivia. Martin from the labs, Sanjeev from radiology. A handful of nurses and techs, whose names Cristina always forgets. Patricia and, inexplicably, a filing clerk from the morgue.

Cristina patches together shifts for the hospital, because sometimes Izzie cries, and sometimes George doesn't. Cristina doesn't, not ever, not after the first week.

People still get sick, and people still get shot. Cristina polishes the surgical instruments herself, in the middle of the night when not even Izzie and George can soothe her temper.

She's not yet calloused enough to time how quickly it takes her to suture a stab wound. She hopes she'll be able to, someday, because part of her wants to know.

Every once in a while, a patient clutches Cristina's hand and tells her _thank you_. Cristina smiles, when it happens, and turns her shoulder and walks away.

_vi. you knew years ago when she was beautiful_

Sometimes Cristina stands on the roof, when it's cloudy out, with no chance of snipers. She likes to sit on the edge and stare across the city, and remember what it's like to breathe.

Most of the time, Izzie finds her there, slides an arm around her shoulders and a kiss against her neck.

They don't talk, but it's only those moments that remind Cristina that Izzie isn't actually crazy. That madness, or whatever label she's thrown over Izzie, is a construction.

Once, Izzie told her it was okay, that they all coped in their own ways. Cristina had snorted, told her to stop talking like a shrink and check the water filtration system instead.

If the sun breaks through the clouds, Cristina knows it's time to return to work. Izzie twines their fingers together, and like that, they descend.

_vii. the nerves pouring around in her like palace fire_

It's a Thursday when the guards cry warning, and three people limp into the hospital. It's close to dark, and they usually don't let anybody in without sun, but one of the injured is a kid.

George still has a soft spot for kids, and Cristina doesn't have the energy to argue about it, most of the time. He only shrugs her off when she traces the jagged half-circle scar, right above his sternum.

It's a Thursday, and George's night off, and there's a kid coming through the door with a hole in his shoulder. Cristina wants to turn him away, but she settles for having the guards frisk the intruders, twice.

It's the third search before Cristina declares them patients, but it's good enough. Izzie follows them into the pit, and the guards following the kid's parents with their guns.

The boy whimpers when Cristina swabs the edges of the wound with peroxide. "Sorry," Cristina mutters.

"Going soft?" Izzie asks.

Cristina glances over her shoulder. "Shut up."

But Izzie just grins at her, and maybe tonight will be better than the last.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been as vague as possible with apocalyptic details. Essentially, wave your hand diagonally over a map of the United States. Now scribble _anarchy and want and occasional armed skirmishes_ over it. That is my apocalypse.


End file.
